


the stars of track and field

by madame_meretrix (laisserais)



Series: Belle & Sebastian 'verse [1]
Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-19
Updated: 2008-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laisserais/pseuds/madame_meretrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen's the fastest long-distance runner on the team and he beat his own record by three quarters of a second.<br/><b>warning</b>: Jensen's underage</p>
            </blockquote>





	the stars of track and field

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a whim, for mel, who's feeling blue. Unbeta-read, so feel free to point stuff out. title stolen from Belle and Sebastian.

  


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**The Stars of Track and Field**   


  
All of his muscles ache. Even his hair hurts, he's that tired. But he did good today. He's the fastest long-distance runner on the team and he beat his own record by three quarters of a second. He's a shoo-in for varsity next year. Yeah, no question.

His breath makes dragon patterns on the air. The differential between his internal temperature and the temperature outside, he figures, must be greater than thirty percent.

"Nice job, Ackles. You gunning for captain?"

Jensen nods, waves off a cluster of teammates. They're at a ninety-degree angle to his right side, in between Jensen and the sun. Their shadows make truncated right Triangles on the grass. The track is spongy under his shoes. There's a stitch in his side as he jogs slowly toward the gym.

"Hey, Jensen, you got those history notes?" says the kid who sits two seats behind and one to the left of him in fourth period. Jensen pulls his binder out of the locker, hands it over as he continues to undress. Twenty-seven minutes until homeroom, three minutes to get to the shower, eight to get clean, another five to get dressed again. He'll have plenty of time to go over the equation again before the bell rings.

Every muscle trembles under the onslaught of scorching water. It feels good to push himself. The wall of his physical limitation is right there in front of him, and he can see the top of it; all he has to do is will himself over. Walls are made for climbing, after all.

He turns the hot water faucet one-sixteenth of its circumference, increasing both the pressure and the heat. The water pounds into his deltoids at an angle not greater than the product of one-half times the hypotenuse, times the square root of three.

Coach Morgan's leaning against the white tiled wall that bisects the locker room. The silence, outside the sound of water spraying at a velocity of .3048 meters divided by .003 seconds, indicates that they are the only ones left. Morgan watches him shower.

 _The square root of i times the cosine of…_ It's no good. The equation fails, just as it always fails. Jensen tries to finish it, but he can't. Not when he knows he's being watched. Not when he hopes that, this time, the outcome will be different. He doesn't consciously put on a show, but he does take longer than the eight minutes he'd planned. On days when Coach Morgan stays behind, Jensen knows he's done well. Morgan will tell him so, maybe pat him on the back. Jensen hopes, every time, that today will be the day he does well enough for something else to happen.

When he turns off the shower, Coach comes over with a towel and Jensen's heart increases its beat by a factor of two. "You did good today, Ackles. Gonna make captain of junior varsity, you keep going like that."

"Thanks, Coach," Jensen says, wiping himself down. He runs what he's got so far of his equation through his head again, stopping at the wall that always presents itself before too long. If he can solve it, if he can climb over that wall, he'll have answers to questions no one's even thought to ask.

He doesn't move when Morgan approaches. His breathing bounces off the tiles and crowds back into his ears.

"I want you to call me Jeff," he says, and touches Jensen's chest, where a droplet runs down from his neck. "Jensen," he says, as if it's the start of something, but then he doesn't go on. Just keeps his hand where it is.

Call him Jeff. Jeff's hand lays over Jensen's heart, and the whole world ticks to a stop. Inside his head, the equation starts up again, and Jensen can see it, inscribed against blazing light, no longer stuck but tumbling forward; the answer so obvious he wants to laugh with simple delight.

But he doesn't laugh. Instead, he smiles, drops the towel and drops to his knees, pulling Jeff's track pants down with him. Jeff's hard already, and Jensen takes it in his hand. It's warm to the touch. He smells good, like a man and sweat, and Jensen buries his face in Jeff's pubic hair for a moment, then takes Jeff's cock in his mouth.

"Whoah, Jensen, hang on a second—" Jeff's hand comes down, tangling in Jensen's wet hair, but Jensen doesn't stop, he sucks on the head, trying to go deeper. Jeff's cock is bigger than he'd imagined it would be, so he goes as far as he can and uses his hand to jack him off. Jeff makes a surprised, but not unhappy sound, and Jensen feels the fingers tighten in his hair.

One of the showerheads is leaking, little splashes happening at an interval of one drop every four seconds. Jensen listens to it as he sucks, harder, his tongue laving over the head. Behind his eyelids Jensen's got the answer to the riddle of the universe and Jeff's cock is smooth on his tongue, and he concentrates on relaxing his throat, brings his lips down to his hand and Jeff's appreciation is registered in the lack of breathing when Jensen does it successfully. He doesn't smile, but he knows he did good. He tries it again and Jeff's knees buckle, and then there's a litany of praise:

"Fuck, fuck, Jensen, your fucking mouth. So hot. Feel so fucking good," Jeff says, and he's petting Jensen now, his big hands carding through his hair, down his face, cradling his jaw as Jensen sucks. "Fucking perfect. So beautiful on your knees. Jesus Christ, boy, what you do to me." Jensen blooms with it, the praise. He feels like he's lifting off the ground, soaring. He's doing good. Jeff likes it, and it feels like that's all he's ever wanted to hear.

He cradles Jeff's balls, feeling the rough tickle of pubic hair. Jensen had always imagined that he'd be hairy. In his fantasies, he'd take Coach Morgan's clothes off and find him dark and hirsute, brutal and wild. In his fantasies, there wasn't any talking.

This is better. Jensen's knees throb on the cement floor of the shower, but he doesN't want to get up. He's hard and aching to come, but he won't let go of any part of Jeff. He wants to taste Jeff come in his mouth. Wants to feel what it's like. He closes his eyes and relaxes his throat, goes down all the way and Jeff says, "Oh God, Jensen. Stop, wait a second--" Jeff pulls him up by his shoulders, kisses him wet and sloppy. Jensen's mouth won't work properly, his tongue buzzes and his jaw kind of stays open. He didn't realize it'd be so intense.

Jeff runs hard hands down his back, his arms, squeezes his ass before letting go and taking Jensen's cock, jacking him off while they kiss. Jeff breathes, "Want to watch you come."

Jensen hangs on to Jeff's neck, tries to jack Jeff off like Jeff's doing to him, but it's hard to focus. Hard to coordinate his movements when Jeff's hand, rough and overwhelming, is making him stumble, stutter, sway.

He buries his head in Jeff's neck, mouthing weakly at the stubble behind his jaw. He's panting, making sounds that would embarrass him if they weren't muffled by Jeff's skin.

Jeff's relentless, biting Jensen's neck, his ear, his shoulder, like he's hungry for it. Like he can't get enough, and all the while holding him up in one hand and jacking him off, hard and quick. Jensen's going to die. He's going to explode and pass out and just never wake up again. He doesn't want it to end, but it's too good to stop and Jeff's still talking, still saying, "Such a good boy. Wanted you. Want to fuck you. Every time I see you. Fuck, Jensen. Let me see you come. ComE, Jen."

And he does. Hard and impossible and hanging onto Jeff like an anchor. They're both sweating, Jensen's hands slipping on Jeff's skin as he practically climbs him. Holds on for dear life. Jeff's hand is tight and perfect and rough and Jensen fucks up into it as he comes, holding his breath, silent as a grave.

Jeff holds him through it, keeps him on his feet until his head clears. He breathes.

"Fuck," he says and Jeff grumbles a laugh. When Jensen looks up, Jeff's eyes are glittering; he's smiling at Jensen like Jensen's a miracle.

Jensen blinks. Laughs a little and Jeff bends down, kisses him open-mouthed again, and it's the best thing that's ever happened to him.

They break apart and Jeff sighs. "Thank you." That isn't what Jensen expects to hear and he doesn't know what to say back, so he just nods, mute. "Better get to class," Jeff says, and pats him on the ass.

All Jensen can do is watch as Jeff rights his clothing and walks away. Jensen feels chilled. Jeff's right, though, he'll be late for homeroom. It's disorienting, the sense that he's lost track of time. The bell might have rung already, and Jensen wouldn't have noticed. He wouldn't have noticed because he was _fucking Coach Morgan in the locker room_. Jensen blinks a couple of times, and wants to laugh in disbelief.

He pulls himself together, gets his books out of his locker and heads out of the changing room. Right before the door, he pauses at Jeff's office. Jeff's at his desk, staring at the papers in front of him, unmoving.

Jensen runs through a thousand possible things to say, but nothing appropriate for this moment comes to mind, so he turns to go.

Jeff's voice stops him. "Jensen."

"Yeah?"

"I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early."

Jensen's smile is completely involuntary. He did good. And this isn't the end of anything. "Yeah, Coach. I'll see you."

Jeff's answering smile is sunlight from behind clouds; it's a promise of more, a dark whisper unfurling a mystery that he'd never even noticed before. He sits at his desk and realizes that he's forgotten all about his equation.


End file.
